Jumpers
by reallybritish
Summary: It was getting cold again. Very cold. Jumper season, John called it. (Hopefully) fluffy and funny eventual Johnlock. One-shot.


**Author's Note – So this is my foray into Sherlock fanfiction. I don't know if this is any good, but it's an idea that I just thought of, and so this came to be :)**

**Johnlock, eventually. They have beautiful chemistry together. I couldn't resist writing about them. I hope this is funny! I sort of intended for it to be fluffy and comedic at the same time, so I suppose you could call it a flomedy. If it's funny at all. Or fluffy. I don't know. *bites nails nervously***

**Disclaimer - I don't own the Sherlock series, and I don't own anything affiliated with it either, therefore I'm not Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss or any of the other people involved, nor am I Arthur Conan Doyle back from the dead. I'm just writing for my own enjoyment.**

It was getting cold again. Very cold. Jumper season, John called it. Sherlock had taken to wearing his coat and scarf indoors, which constantly confused Mrs Hudson, and made her think that he was always about to dash off somewhere.

A lot of the time, she was right.

Fortunately, however, Sherlock didn't wear his coat to bed, but that still left the problem of being cold when trying to go to sleep too, owing to the broken central heating in the flat.

"Wear your dressing gown, maybe," suggested John, pulling on a jumper over his pyjamas.

"No," replied the detective. "Makes me feel like I'm being strangled. Had a bad experience when I was younger."

"Oh."

He paused.

"Do you, er, want to borrow a jumper?"

"A jumper?"

"Yeah."

"A jumper of yours?"

"What other jumpers are there round here?"

It wasn't much of a response, but Sherlock strode off into John's room and opened the drawers. He picked up the first jumper he came to.

"It might be a bit small," said John, "but it'll stop you from getting cold."

Sherlock inspected the jumper.

"Yes."

John assumed that the jumper idea worked for his flatmate, and he nodded and left his room. Sherlock stretched the sleeves. It would do, he supposed, and he attempted to put the jumper on. He got as far as getting his arms halfway in the sleeves, and then, he got stuck.

"...John," he called, his voice muffled by the wool. "John, I'm stuck in the jumper…"

John didn't hear him over the kettle boiling, and was oblivious to Sherlock staggering around in his room, arms awkwardly in the air, eyes covered by a slightly-too-small jumper.

"I'm stuck! John, your jumper is not good! John!"

Eventually, a resounding crash got John's attention. He dashed into his room and found Sherlock had knocked over his wardrobe and all of his clothes had been strewn across the floor. The guilty party was laying on the floor, unable to sit up.

"John. This jumper. Stuck. Get me out."

A bubble of laughter rose up inside John, and he was struggling not to burst out laughing, despite the fact that his wardrobe was the wrong way round and his clothes were all over the place. He knelt down beside Sherlock and helped him pull his head and arms through the jumper.

"There. Still sticking with the jumper?"

"I'm cold."

"Fair enough."

John proceeded to offer Sherlock a cup of tea, which Sherlock grudgingly accepted. The army doctor left him sitting there 'thinking' and went up to bed.

...

Three hours later, the sound of a violin playing his favourite tune woke John up. As nice as it sounded, he was frustrated that he'd been woken up when it took him long enough to get to sleep in the first place.

"Sherlock," he grumbled, stepping over the mess and destruction in his bedroom and wandering into the living room. "Did you have to start a flipping concert when I was asleep?"

Sherlock turned and John suddenly felt all weird and fuzzy. The way the moonlight shining through the window silhouetted the detective, and the way he held the violin, made him go shivery. John stared for a second before mentally slapping himself.

_No_, he thought. _No, John Hamish Watson, you will not think about Sherlock Holmes like that. He's your friend, not… just don't think about it. You're supposed to be annoyed with him._

"John," he said, setting down his violin. He was still wearing the jumper. "I woke you up. Good. I have to ask you something."

"All right," replied John, sitting down. "You've woken me up, now, so you might as well. What is it?"

Sherlock sat down next to him.

"This is to do with a case," he started quickly, "I have to get into a person's mindset, to understand their motives. Before you say anything."

"OK. Fire away."

"What would you do if you loved someone that you weren't really supposed to, and they didn't know about it?"

There was an awkward silence.

"For a case?" asked John, looking right into Sherlock's eyes.

"For a case."

"Well… I'd admit it to them. Get it out in the open. It's better that they knew, just in case they feel the same way -"

He went bright red.

"I mean, felt. Felt the same way. Of course."

"Of course," repeated Sherlock, smiling a little bit. John felt all fluttery again and he had to remind himself that he was a grown man, not a giggling schoolgirl.

"Was that any good?" he asked.

"Very helpful," replied Sherlock, and John couldn't help but notice a little tinge of red across his cheeks. "Now, I've got something to admit. I told a bit of a white lie there. The truth is, I didn't ask you that because I needed help for a case. I asked you that because -"

The doorbell rung, and the atmosphere was destroyed. Sherlock leapt to his feet with an irritated sigh and went to answer the door. John was left sitting there, his heart racing.

"Molly!" John heard Sherlock exclaim. "For God's sake, what are you doing here? It's one o'clock in the morning!"

"Hi, Sherlock," came Molly's quiet reply. "My radiator broke. It's, erm, sort of flooded my flat. I need somewhere to sleep. I've nowhere else to go."

"Well, you can't -"

John jumped up and went to the door.

"Molly," he said, with a strained smile. "Ignore Sherlock. Sorry to hear about your flat. You can stay here if you want."

Sherlock looked down at John with his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, can she?" he said grumpily. "It's not our problem that her flat is flooded."

"You are so rude sometimes, Sherlock. How would you feel if that happened to us?"

He paused and rolled his eyes.

"And great, now we sound like an old married couple. Brilliant."

"I'll go home if it's a problem," cut in Molly carefully. "Or not home. Somewhere else."

"No, Molly," said John, giving Sherlock a subtle elbow in the ribs. "It's fine. More than fine. As long as you don't mind sleeping on the sofa. It's pretty comfortable, actually."

"Not a problem. Thank you so much, John. Thanks too, Sherlock."

John stepped back and let Molly in. She went through to the front room and Sherlock glared at John.

"I was trying to tell you something," he seethed. "Something important."

"I know," whispered John in reply. "But she needs a place to go. You can tell me when she's asleep."

Molly's face appeared round the doorway.

"I've not interrupted anything, have I?"

"No," said the two men simultaneously. "Nothing."

Molly eyed the detective and the doctor carefully.

"Sherlock, are you blushing?"

"No, absolutely not," Sherlock said abruptly, and he went back into the sitting room.

The other two followed, and John offered to make tea. Sherlock gave him an extremely annoyed look as the doctor went into the kitchen. Sherlock and Molly sat in a state of awkward silence.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rung again.

"What now?" sighed John, putting down his cup of tea, and he silently volunteered himself to go and answer the door. He opened it, and there was Mycroft, umbrella and all.

"Mycroft, what the hell?"

Sherlock appeared behind John.

"Oh great."

"Hello to you too, dear brother," said Mycroft curtly. "And you, John. Awake at this hour?"

"Don't tell me you need somewhere to sleep as well, Mycroft," growled Sherlock. "You can go home right now."

"That's a shame," replied Mycroft. "I was hoping you could help me with that, actually. I lost my keys and I am locked out of my house. Ridiculous, I know."

"And you couldn't text because…?"

"Oh, believe me, Sherlock, I tried. Your phone - both of your phones - are off."

"And you couldn't kidnap me at this time either, I suppose," said John.

"Correct."

A shout from behind Mycroft got everyone's attention, including Molly, who had come to the door from the kitchen wondering what was going on. Luckily, Mrs Hudson was still asleep in her flat. Mycroft stepped aside, and there was Lestrade coming up the stairs behind him.

"Oh, you have got to be joking…" muttered Sherlock, pinching his forehead in frustration.

"Sorry to trouble you at this hour, Sherlock," said Lestrade sheepishly, standing next to Mycroft, "but -"

"Do you know what?" Sherlock hissed, dangerously angry. "I don't want to hear it. This is stupid. Why don't you invite the whole of Scotland Yard, round, then, Lestrade? Donovan, Anderson - you might as well!"

He took a deep, frustrated breath, and it occurred to him that Mycroft had not lost his keys, and was in fact just trying to spy on Sherlock. Again.

(This only served to make him even more annoyed).

"No, Lestrade, you can't stay. Mycroft, stop trying to spy on me. John, kitchen, right now."

He stormed inside, grabbing John's arm. John gave Mycroft and Lestrade a look of apology as he was pulled off after the seething detective. Molly looked up as they passed through the living room, and was about to say something when Sherlock snapped, "Shut up, Molly," and tugged John into the kitchen, where they were out of view.

"What was that -"

Sherlock kissed him. Silence.

John got over the initial shock quite quickly and actually enjoyed the brief few seconds left of it before it was over.

"Sherlock," he murmured. "Damn it, seriously? Was that what you were going on about? You wanted to kiss me?"

Sherlock said nothing, but he smirked at the ground. John smiled and glanced over Sherlock's shoulder His face quickly drained of all colour.

"Oh no."

Sherlock turned around and saw Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade and, oddly enough, Mrs Hudson too, standing there. Lestrade sighed and handed over £20 to Mycroft, who gave him a smug look and tucked the money into his wallet.

"I knew it!" cried Mrs Hudson triumphantly. "Don't tell us you two aren't a couple!"

Sherlock glanced at John, who looked up at him in return. Both were now a very unusual shade of red.

"Um…" said John. "Tea, anyone?"


End file.
